The confines of fourteen lines hold me down
The sovereign of the sonnet has trapped me
Now, what is there left to do but steal his evil crown?
Had I not convinced myself that this task would be
So simple, I might be wearing it by
Now. However, that is not the case at all.
Brutish thoughts assail as I contemplate on why
Shakespeare had the audacity to enthrall
The whole of England with his cruel, cruel mind.
I mean to say, his poetry is
Rather soft, and his words are rather kind
But the source of my frustration is all his
Doing. I’ve done it now though, haven’t I?
A sonnet completed in the span of one night.